Box Five: The Opera Ghost
by AthenaL
Summary: Musical obsession stalks cellars of the opera house. Erik watches from box five & he is not alone. Known only as Mademoiselle, this famed soprano & courtesan was once his muse. Before Christine there was another. This is their story through her eyes.
1. Chapter 1

**BOX FIVE**

by Athena Lyso

**Prologue**

A black and terrible beauty lived inside him.

Those deaths were not his fault.

I was to blame.

He killed to find me,

to protect me-

-_Mademoiselle_

_

* * *

_

**Headlines  
**_November- Paris 1893 _

OPERA HOUSE RETIREMENT GALA FOR EXITING MANAGERS MARRED BY HANGING DEATH

page one headline Revue Theatrale

...two weeks later page six

INQUEST RULES OPERA DEATH IS A SUICIDE

* * *

_**Erik**_...

_Joseph Buquet is dead._

_I have destroyed this last._

_He shall no longer plague you,_

_Live in you nightmares_

_He shall no more keep you away from me._

_My sweet friend_

_Return to me before the madness does._

_Grant your servant absolution,_

_Return to me my Sweet..._

_ My love..._

_...My heart leapt when first I heard her sing._

_Now it leaps again at the angelic voice of a little seamstress._

_It is as if she has come back to me as she was before,_

_Beautiful and unspoiled by men like that monster Buquet_

_When first I saw my angel I thought it was she._

_And when I heard her I knew there could be no doubt,_

_This innocent girl is my reward_

_By some miracle she has come back to me..._

_My sweet_

_My angel_

_My first love-_

_I shall not fail you a second time._

* * *

**Headlines**  
_December 1893 _

OPERA GHOST HAS RETURNED AND NEW MANAGEMENT MANAGE HAS TROUBLE WITH SOPRANOS

_...Page 2 Theatrale Revue, _

La Carlotta has shut down the production of Faust when she has refused to perform following an incident of 500 dead rats found in her dressing room. Managers claim it was a mistake made by one of the dozens of rat catchers they employ in the lower cellars. The boy believed Madame's dressing room to be the repository used for the carcasses until the rats are taken to the incinerator. La Carlotta has issued a statement saying that the event has her in a state of complete shock...

* * *

**_Erik..._**

_I am so pleases that La Carlotta appreciates my gift._

_The longer she refuses to return_

_The more apparent it will be how greatly superior my Christine is._

_They cannot afford to stop production forever._

_A little note left on her doorstep_

_Followed up with a bouquet of rat tales is just the thing._

_She vows never to return._

_Now they will hear the true Margarita_

_Now at last my angel will get to sing._

_And perhaps a retainer for my services as musical director..._

_

* * *

_

**********Personals  
**_December 1893_

_Theatrale Revue, back page in the personals..._

O.G.-There is no excuse for them. We left your Memorandum book in their care-Kind Regards former management.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_**Mademoiselle**_**  
**

I put the paper down with trembling hands. They know not who or what they are dealing with. He will not be defied: opera ghost, phantom, or as I know him, Erik. However they choose to call him, he is not about to be categorized by any of their sciences. He will not be bound by their morality nor can he be purchased by their economy. His will be done or they shall meet the consequences.

Just when I had come to believe all was finished, allowed myself to believe he is at peace. What I fear most is the return of the madness. I can make allowances for the death of Joseph Buquet only to accept that it is the end of everything. I was naive to believe it could ever be so. But ever a fool I have been.

The gentle rocking of the train to Dover lulls my senses. London is behind me. I must return to him as I always do. We shall face this together, whatever it may be. I unleashed him upon this world, freeing him from his prison just as he freed me of mine.

There was never going to be a future for us. I abandoned him. I know now he would have never done that to me. Now we have paid the price of my neglect in the form of his sanity. It was not his face that condemned him but the blackness of his soul. He has never been whole. There was a time when it was easier just to let him believe that I was dead so I could escape. I needed time. I was young.

There were so many things he did not understand. Grieving my loss ravaged what remained of his humanity. The body count began to grow. He took his revenge upon the Opera. I felt no pity for his victims. I did not begrudge him their deaths. It was my revenge much more than his. I let five men hang before I let him know the truth. I waited until there was a sea between us before I let him know I lived. Even then I could not tell him the whole truth. I have yet to find the words to explain.

It wasn't until a year after the killings had stopped that I returned to him. I remained under his guidance and became the toast of Paris. In the end it was too painful for me to stay. Every day having to endure the leers of Joseph Buquet, the only man I did not name, the only man Erik had let live. He knew too many things about Erik and held that threat of that over my head. He knew other things about me too, things even Erik did not know.

Wherever Buquet was I could not bear to be. So I left. Leaving Erik alone once more. I promised to return every winter and I was as good as my word but it was not enough. My voice took me from city to city. I never remained more than a season in any one city. I became the toast of London, Dublin and Vienna. Then I traversed the Atlantic to headline in New York.

Erik gave that gift to me. My triumphs were his. I sent him the clippings, every rave review or advertisement. No matter where I was I followed the Parisian papers. Nothing was written of his antics for long stretches at a time, no violence or pranks. I took it for happiness. I took it for contentment with our arrangement. But if ever I was later than I promised, even by just a day, mischief marked my tardiness. So I learned to be punctual and he learned to wait.

In those days we used the personals to exchange messages. It was just the same when we first arrived in Paris. I was a faceless member of the chorus. No one ever suspected I had anything to do with the opera ghost. They never stumbled upon us in our meeting places like the roses near the Palais de Louvre or any of the countless music rooms within the opera house. In those days it was our time, our secret, our game. It was a simple. No one was paying attention us or so we believed. We had been playing at it for so long we forgot to pay attention to the world around and be cautious.

Paris was our new beginning. My pretty knees had me first cast as a dancer before a gypsy lullaby gained me a position on the chorus. I was set up with a dorm room like all the other girls. The luxury of my own bed was heaven and every thing was covered in clean linen white as snow. There was no need to beg or steal my bread.

I was not like the other girls, giggling at the gifts from their admirers or sitting in parlors powdered and cinched after a day of practice. They were there to catch the eye of a rich patron. I kept upstairs and trained for something more. I was better than those simpering ballerinas. I had a voice and an angel of music to guide me.

Erik was hired on as a mason for the final phase of construction of Garnier's temple to music. He wore a false beard and fake nose to replace the one the Sultan had lopped off. He did not seem to mind working for the man who stole his life's work. I was angry for the both of us. Knowing what I do, it will always be Erik's temple.

I remembered his drawings from the early days of our captivity among the gypsies. When they took his paper as punishment he scratched out every detail in the dirt. He spoke of little else that first year inside the camp unless it was to comfort me. From the very beginning he took me under his wing from inside his iron cage. I was only six years old when we met. His face never frightened me.

Perhaps it was the hypnotic quality of his voice. It is the breath of heaven and the seduction of the devil all in one. I have found it to be a living thing all its own. How else am I to explain how his words can whisper so intimately in my ear when he is nowhere to be seen? Or when his shadow teases me from across the garden, though the warmth of his breath is on my neck. His voice is alive, a separate soul. How else can I reconcile the two halves? One is a monster, dark and hideous, and the other an angel, gentle and beautiful.

The blast of the train's whistle recalls me to the present as the wheels screeches to a halt against the rails. I take several deep breaths to calm the uneasiness I feel at the prospect of boarding the boat. The warm hand of Mary, my maid, pats my forearm reassuringly. The damp air bites through every layer as we descend the platform, sending a mutual shiver up our spines. The steam from the train hardly makes a dent in the winter fog.

"Don't worry Mademoiselle. It is a fine day even if it is winter. The crossing to Calais cannot be too terrible."

I smile knowing she has never made the crossing in winter. "Thank you, Mary." We step on to the gangway and she is as green as I feel. I applaud her English stiff upper lip. I have lived among her countrymen for five years now and never quite mastered it.


	2. Chapter 2

We settled on the ferry and I try reading to fight the rush of memories in my mind. A small smile teases my lips when read a mention of the lovely Meg Giry in the Revue Theatrale. I earn a raised brow from Mary, who quickly stifles her questioning look by burying her head in some awful knitting. She has no talent for it but she makes up for the lack of it with hard work. She and Meg are a bit alike in that regard. Madame Giry, Meg's mother is a friend from the old days. She supports them both as a box keeper at the opera house. She faithfully sends me a copy of the Revue every week, underlining each mention of her daughter.

Meg has a small talent but it is sufficient enough under the present direction of the ballet corps. She has pretty knees and a perfect point to her foot that makes up for her small grace. I do what I can for her. Erik helps her too, helps them both if money can purchase their comfort. They know nothing of the connection he and I share. As we pull away from the shore, my stomach begins to churn. Mary is ghostly white and her knitting is abandoned entirely.

I hate the crossing, up and down, forwards and back, side to side. My stomach drops out as we hit the first of the large swells. I am not sure whether I am glad for my empty stomach or worse off for it. I lean my head back against the cabin wall. The smell of the brine and salty air probes my nostrils.

It's hard to ignore the wafting of decay in the smell of fish gut on the hands of those who work the ferry ropes. It is no use it wraps all around me and takes me back to where I do not want to go.

My thoughts return to Erik. The stench of death and decay clung to all those who worked in the cellars, including him.

I close my eyes, knowing the churning of my stomach is not the from the fourteen foot swells we navigate. I fight the losing battle with my memories not my senses. As if it is happening all over again my body responds to the memory of those bruising hands on me. The strangled feeling as the air was crushed from my lungs, the taste of blood in my mouth from where another hit me splitting my lip upon my teeth and nauseous helplessness. It is the drenching of hatred I still feel for all that blackness as I was dragged deeper into the cellars so that no one would hear my cries. My night of triumph turned to horror.

He knew I would seek Erik. He knew there was no one else I could wish to share my glory with that opening night. So he gathered his gang and laid in wait for me. Buquet knew what he was about. No doubt he resented the fact that he had to work for someone like Erik on the mason crew. There was no better revenge he could take than to attack me.

I tried so desperately to flee my body through my mind. The smell of brine filled my nostrils would not let me. It kept me tethered while he overpowered me, taunting me. He was everywhere at once and my strength was nothing to his. He tore at my clothes and put his filthy hand on my skin. I thought I would tear in two. Death was my release. I prayed for it as he finished and called another one over to take a turn at me.

Then the taste of salty waters filled my tongue. It tasted of tears, yet I had none. I could not prevent Buquet from satisfying himself in every way. He took everything but the satisfaction of my tears. The saltiness mixed with the blood and suddenly the crushing weight of the latest torment was gone. I heard the strange crack of a snapping neck as his skull broke upon the stones where Erik had flung him.

I heard their cries of fright. My only thought is that I must run while I can. I had very little strength but what I did have I used to fling myself into his arms, Erik's safe and protective arms. I did not care that he smelled of death and the sewer he swam to find me in this blackness.

For as long as I can remember he is and always has been my only protector in this life. The only one I have ever trusted.

Erik was reluctant to let my rapists escape. His roar echoed against the stones and reverberated loudly enough that was heard all the way to the rafters of the opera house. There was talk of little else in the weeks that followed. Thus was born the mystery of the opera ghost.

He did not turn away from me to pursue his hate, even in my honor. As my legs gave out from pain and sheer fright, his arms scooped me up and cradled me to him. His fingers caressed my cheek, slick and warm from their bath in fresh blood. His face was a living nightmare contorted in rage. Looking back I know now that he was more beast than man in that moment. His arms shook with rage and his eyes glowed red in the darkness.

Yet he fought all of it to stay and comfort me. We were both frail and powerful at once. His shoulders sagged and his arms drew me closer in his bony cage. And together we wept.


	3. Chapter 3

_There was no warmth there except what I brought. _

_ There was no tenderness, except what I taught…_

**Chapter 3**

"Sing to me," I whispered through the tears. "I want to forget."

I felt his whole body shudder and exhale. His breath across my forehead slowed so that at knew he had heard me. He set me on my feet and removed his cloak so he could wrap it around my shoulders. Then taking my hand he led me into the dark. To the place he had fixed upon as his home, across the inky lake in the lowest cellars of the Opera house.

"Come," he beckoned, taking my hand in his. "Do you remember the warning to Orfeo?"

"Don't ever look back."

"And so we shall never look back on this day."

My angel of death becomes my angel of light.

"I do not have my nose on. So you must not look at me."

My throat closed up again as the tremors and the shock begins to build inside me. My whole body starts to shake. "You have only ever saved me. Why shouldn't I look at you? It is the only thing that keeps me from…" I stumbled. He was at my side in an instant, sweeping me back up in his arms and murmuring apologies to my temple. He did not make me wait any longer to hear him sing. At first his song is simply the resonance of his voice in his chest, against my ear and calming my mind. The thump of his heart slows mine to meet the steady rhythm of his. The melody invades my soul last of all. His voice casting a spell no opiate can duplicate. It is a sweet seduction chasing away my fears. I closed my eyes and I was whole again.

_ He will not hurt me._

_ He is a part of me._

I chant the words over and over again, first in fear born of what had happened, and then in confidence in knowing he was here now and always would be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It is a sudden jolt and a stinging blow to my temple against a bolt where my head had come to rest that pools me from my nightmare turned dream.

"I am awake," I murmur before I recollect myself.

I look around but no one is paying any attention to me. We have arrived. Calais. Now it is a matter of the train to Paris and home.

"Thank the lord for the rocking of a train, now we travel as God intended." Mary says under breath as we take our seats in our car.

I suppress a smile and pretend not to hear. She is only twenty but speaks her mind as a maid who has spent as many years in the employ of her mistress. I am not offended. I know who I am and where I come from. The only difference between us is that she has better breeding and I earn enough to pay her. We are working women and the bane of our society.

It seems like it take forever to arrive and the daylight is short this time of year. It is nightfall yet the city shines like a beacon as always.

Paris in the snow, glittering white gems drifting down to the Seine and twinkle in the moonlight like pieces of stardust. Home. The wheels on the cobblestone sound different in Paris than in London. It is the openness of the streets and the grand vision of symmetry by the Louis's and Napoleons that have come and gone.

I own a home in the heart of the opera district. My dwelling is well known and despite rumors to the contrary I earn every franc that pays for its keep. It is imperative that I keep my arrival a secret. I am a full week ahead of our scheduled meeting and I know Erik has eyes on the front entrance always.

To Mary's shock, I order the hired carriage to pull round to the servants' entrance. It is not from Erik that I hide. I have already received telegrams from the musical director and the former managers imploring me to come help bolster the flagging company. That is not why I have come nor it is a whirlpool I wish to be drawn into. Beneath my black cloak and plain broadcloth travel clothes I may arrive in peace and keep my anonymity.

Yet I cannot fool my own household for long. The warm faces of servants I have not seen in many months help me settle in my room. The air is sweetened with vanilla and cinnamon. A fresh-faced footman that I do not remember from my last homecoming helps to carry my trunk to my room. His accent is rustic. A pretty simpleton I surmise.

Everything has been prepared or kept in anticipation of my arrival. I should have expected nothing less from Rene. He knows my every thought before I have it. A crackling fire and a tray of steaming hot food from the kitchen complete the welcome in my room. The whistle of the storm soothes away the weariness of my long travels. Every detail whispers welcome home to me.

I laugh when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I have tucked up all my dark hair under a scarf and wear a cloak several yards too big. My old hat and stooped posture have not fooled anyone, except maybe the footman who could not remember the name of whose house he was working for. I wonder that I have taken such trouble to disguise myself, or that I should be surprised that I have again taken up this journey.

Now is not time to dally. When the footman carries up my last trunk I test his real skills.

"Do you know if there is a performance tonight or is la Carlotta still away?"

"Aye they are playing tonight. But if you're interested in seeing Carlotta you are going to be disappointed."

"Have they a new soprano?"

"That is what they say." His eyes are guarded. I have a feeling, like most footmen working in the Opera district he has his own source of knowledge and connections. Perhaps he is not such a simpleton, or at the very least he is more useful that his rustic ways indicated earlier.

I have an opera to see. I have connections that would land me in a box if I were willing to trade on my name. My goal is to see and not be seen. It is too irresistible to think of who they could get to replace Carlotta and why she had not come forward before.

"I want you to get me a ticket, or a way inside. I can pay."

"Madame," he protests.

I see the youthful glimmer akin to a confession below the surface. He has his methods I am certain of it. He is young, handsome, more than up to the task of seducing a ticket from a ballerina or chorus girl. He is too thin for my taste and I have never been particularly attracted to dark haired men. In my day he would have had no success with me, few did. Though I own that the fit of his coat does not fully obscure the strength of his shoulders.

"You do not know what it is you are asking."

"Do I not?"

"No one has turned in their tickets since it has been announced that La Carlotta has been replaced."

I stifle a grin. So that is as well as she has been performing. I hastily scribble a name on a card. Wondering if this footman shares my opinion of Carlotta's stage presence. Perhaps this understudy is his sweetheart.

"Ask him." The name has the desired effect. He flushes and stammers, a little too readily. The hue brightens his eyes to an arresting green. There is a slight crinkle that appears around his eyes has me questioning whether or not I have underestimated his age if not his naivety.

"Yes of course, Pardon Madame-"

"Madame serves well enough for present," as if I would share that secret with him. He will have to be here a season or too longer, at least a day or two longer, before I will give him my trust. I need too move freely in this city for as long as I am able.

Alone at last, I go about affecting my costume. A gray wig ought to throw off the newspapers hounds and opera gossips off my scent long enough for me to see this understudy for myself. If I am lucky I may even fool Erik for part of the evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Relishing the cloud of black I have tucked myself away in like widow's weeds, I only half listen as the footman prattles on a little too eagerly. He procured the tickets, just like I knew he would. It appears he even managed to get them on his own and not used the favor I tried to call in. This is better. Now I might hide for a few days more.

Heedless of my disinterest the young man guides me by the elbow through the crowd. His stinging touch causes me to jump a little.

Unperturbed he continues: "When I was a boy my father worked at the opera. I never saw such wonders as I did during those years. Nothing was ever as beautiful in my life."

"You have a few years ahead of you yet. I am certain something will tempt away your high praise.

Under his breath he mutters something. Had I not thought it too incredible I could have sworn he said "Not bloody likely."

Clearing my throat and shaking my head clear of the English phrases lingering in my mind. I ask: "Was your father a carpenter? Did he take you to matinees hanging from the rafters?"

"We had a bird's eye view you could say."

His accent is too rustic, indicating a simple education and time spent in the country. My mind is playing tricks on me.

"Did you?"

The footman flashes another toothy grin that borders on impertinence until he drops his gaze. "Well as charming as your tales are I am not interested in the raptures of your boyhood."

Only that morning Mary plucked an errant strand of silver from my black tresses. It was one thing to feign a certain age. It was another to become it. I tried not to think of the new line at my throat. Erik will spot it and call it out. His breed of charm lay in his genius, not his manners. I glance over at the footman who walks up to the box office quite determined. I shove away the thought of that deepening crease in my forehead.

"I do not care where the seats are. I am quite capable if finding it on my own. I do not need a servant to accompany me." I emphasize the word servant hoping to discourage his puppy enthusiasm. He only smiles more stupidly, though for a brief flash I glimpse real intelligence. Perhaps he does know what he is about after all.

Despite a few more protests on my part we are at last inside the doors, both of us. I refuse the offer to take my cloak. It is better to conceal myself beneath its worn layers. Here of all places, I am run the greatest risk of being recognized. I shall hear this Miss Daae myself without the pressing opinions of others or their demands of mine. She can be no worse than Carlotta; otherwise Erik would not allow her to perform.

Either way the evening shall prove interesting. Not a soul looks my direction and why would they with my black taffeta, worn boots and mended gloves. I look like Madame Giry and like her, invisible to all the fashionable set who are inside these walls tonight.

The footman follows a little to closely for my liking, more like a suitor than a servant, though I shall lose him soon enough in the crush. He has an eagerness about him. His eyes sharpen and dart about when he thinks I am not looking. He must have a sweetheart in the chorus. She could even be sweet, leggy, Meg Giry? They would make a handsome pair. Would his pretty grey eyes and golden skin tempt her to a life away from all of this? Or just simply tempt her.

He has shown himself quite resourceful. Talking his way past the box office to get us both inside on one ticket. He described an ailment I had never heard of and nearly had me convinced I suffer from it. My dress is thickly padded so we have moved the distance from the door to the bottom of the staircase before I realize, his hand rests on the small of my back.

He smiles at my wig and the affected slump of my shoulders. Yet eyes rake over me as if to discern my true figure beneath the padding of my costume. His looks are conspiring but I don't know to what deception. What I portray myself as or what he would have me see him as.

I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling and this unexpected bit of fun. So my footman is flirtatious and curious. I suppose that not even I am immune to a pretty face. But I have a purpose this night. And this is my opera.

A few turns and a slight misdirection, I have lost him in the crowd. Puppy!

I watch him from the landing as he searches for me. He spins and frowns. At one point he climbs part way up the stairs, only to stop long enough to spin in front of me. I am so close I could reach out and touch him. Even when he looks straight at me he can no longer see me.

I do not wish it and neither does he, I imagine. Now we are both free to do what we really came to do. He moves through the crowd with purpose. His shoulders straighten and draw back to reveal they are far broader than I first assumed. His manners to the women all flourish as he passes and toward the men all politeness. I watch him long enough to see the humble veneer give way to a step of restrained arrogance. What did he mean by following me around? I have many questions not for this night. All I do know for certain is that he is no footman


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Stopping at the top of the staircase I pause to look back. They hardly seem real to me any longer. It is like living inside of a chalk sketch. The crush seems to float toward me in a sea of finery, a kaleidoscope of brightly colored silk and sparkling gems. Adding texture to it all are layers of feather trim and ermine cloaks. It is something out of a dream and I am a little girl dreaming it. The scene takes my breath away. It does every time.

Bobbing above their elaborately swept up hair and top hats is a turban. Now I have seen everything. What a treat for the eyes if they could parade across the stage under the brilliance of a spotlight. Yet for all of that, they pale in comparison to the grand façade itself, the richness of the green and red marble. I see it in glimpses between lace petticoats and kidskin slippers with paste heels

The impression is part memory part reality. I have spent so many hours in this place, on this staircase and staring up at the angels on the ceiling of the auditorium. This place is a testament to one man's genius. His artistry touches every plane and shadow. This is his monument, his palace and I am just visiting here.

In the opera house, Erik is the sultan. My eye draws back to the blue turban. The man towers over every one. He moves about with a grace and elegance rarely evident. That is he, towering over them all draped in a lapis colored cloak. He stalks up the stairs and I gaze in abject wonder and admiration at the way that indigo turban presides over them all. He has disguised his face with a wax nose and a thick black beard. Yet I would recognize the grin of those gleaming white teeth anywhere.

His grace of movement belies his height as does his speed and agility. My heart quickens and my breath catches in my throat. My courage fails me and like a child I slip behind the shelter of one of the pillars until the fear passes. Yet I cannot control my eyes. They follow wherever he goes. I am sweating and shivering at once. I force them shut.

The delighted gasps and giggles that follow him up the stairs let me know how close he is. I open my eyes in time to watch them part before him like sheep. He is not interested in their admiring looks. He knows I am here and he is coming for me.

I wonder at my presumption in arriving early. And how did I ever think that I could fool him, Erik. I don't want him to see me like this. I want to run. My feet have turned to stone. I am as unmovable as the marble pillar that supports me. The world is suddenly still, receding like a broken tide draws itself back out to sea. The only sound I hear is that of my heart pounding in my ears. This dull roar separates me from the crowd, freezing time and every sensation except what is between the two of us. The feeling is overpowering. He is already reaching out to me to take command of my soul.

My eyes drift shut to fight back the tears. He is here, right behind me. The air is so still it suffocates. He has stopped moving. My flimsy costume will not fool him as it does the others it will only hurt him that I would try to hide. He knows my soul.

The hem of his cloak brushes past me. Nothing else moves. Exhale. I must command myself to breathe or forsake air altogether. Every one of my senses tingles. A low growl is his greeting, his displeasure that I did not dress for him. It ripples down my spine. I cannot raise my hands, though I sense his hovering over me. I shall not move unless he commands it.

An icy finger traces down my earlobe to the narrow gap in the taffeta at my neck. His breath is ragged. His finger continues its progress down across to my arm until his hand encircles my wrist in a vise like grip. His flesh is so cold it burns. My knees are quaking. If not for his hold on me I might fall. A low hiss escapes between my lips as I final let go of the breath I was holding.

I open my mouth to explain as he spins me round to face him. His hard eyes boring into mine, stopping the words in my throat. Do I see a trace of a cruel smile play beneath that absurd mustache? Is he toying with me, the way a cat plays with its food before devouring it? Erik lets go of my arm and sets me back on my feet. With the tilt of his turban he indicates I should go before him. Now I shall see whether reward or punishment awaits me. With Erik it is never a request. It is a summons.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Twenty-five steps_

_Ten_

_We weave through the crowd_

_A sigh_

_A hiss_

_A whispered note_

_These command me_

_I have no will_

_We come to the cherry wood panels_

_My heart pounds against my throat so I cannot speak_

_I barely breathe…_

My throat constricts and my eyes blur in a strange pang of fear and joy. Yet is fear that wins out when I see that same Adonis faced footman coming toward us. I am made too pliable to appeal to him. I cannot even be certain that he has seen me, us. He has changed his attire. Perhaps it is not he after all. Just as I find the fortitude to seek his eyes, Erik's arms are around my waist.

I feel that familiar fall, the trust and the melting into his cage. This glittering false world spins around me as he whirls me around into darkness. Even if I were to try to struggle my feet no longer touch the ground. My head is not willing to give in like my heart. I open my mouth as if to scream. It his nothing more than a silent gesture of protest as his fingers clamp down over my mouth.

Nothing. The world is black as we are swallowed up in the narrow space between the walls. Did the footman see us? Did anyone see? My lungs feel as though they are about to explode, crushed as I am between his hard chest and the cool stone of the wall. I struggle in vain. His hold does not ease until I cease my struggle. He pulls me back from the wall just enough so I am not pressed against it, though not enough that I can move. Erik understands my terror of the dark. He knows where it comes from and why. His breath teases against my ear, soothing that first wave of panic.

In and out,

In and out,

My breath falls in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest. The tears flow freely down my cheeks now.

"Please," I whisper through his fingers. Yet he understands.

I feel the vibrations of his chest as he chuckles. His arm loosens round my waist so I can fill my lungs even though in these cramped quarters his body keeps me imprisoned against the wall.

Then comes his music. The whispered hum of the lullaby I used to beg him to sing to him. In his way he is helping me. My jaw aches with the pressure of his hand. The bruises will bloom in a few hours and I shall be able to see the perfect imprint of his long fingers like a hand still covering my mouth

His arm snakes away from my waist. He knows I won't run. Greater than the grip of his hands is the power that that voice holds over me, over everyone privileged and cursed to hear it. No. I could never leave him. For the nearly twenty years I have been running, I have never been able to stay away for very long.

His presses the wall next to my check while the other entwines in my hair beneath the gray wig. In one swift motion he tears the wig off of my head. I fall back against him and his free hand quickly covers my mouth again as a thousand burning points of pain explode from my scalp.

The weight of my hair falls against my shoulders, escaping from the dozens of pins that once held it in place. Certainly he has taken most of my hair with the wig. Tears sting my eyes and trace down my cheek. His hand gently massages my scalp as he draws me too him. I feel him bury his face in my hair, breathing it in like it is the air.

He turns me in his arms. The smell of spirit gum assaults my nostrils as he presses his cheek to mine. Every greeting with him is so different. I never know what to expect. Though I know he abhors any attempt at disguise between us, each lie he over turns receives a harsher retribution. This is my punishment for a foolish and clumsy disguise.

"I've missed you. I've missed you." He chants in the way only he can. The fingers that bruised my lips are now brush away my tears. And for a moment I recall that he is more than just my Erik. He is a man of flesh and blood, and all that that implies.

He pretends at this warmth and yet his body is still cold to me. There is something he has not shared. Something has changed. I stifle a shudder, even as I return his embrace. He steps back from me as clumsy as a schoolboy lover and nothing like the dark prince who swept me away.

There is a little light grinning between the stone blocks and wood paneling. It is too dark to see anything but shadows. Still, I sense the warmth of a blush upon his cheek.

"You should have told me you were coming," he chides. "You have made my night complete. There is nothing more I could wish for." He shoves the tortured wig into my hands and frowns. "I hope this ridiculous disguise was not for my benefit." He reaches out and pinches my spongy sides. "Nor this. You can do better or I have not taught you anything at all."

How can I do anything but smile at his frank assessment of my appearance? I couldn't even fool a footman. I feel the excitement pouring off of him. More joy and expectation than I have been greeted with in several seasons of my returns. It occurs to me, not only is he eager to have Carlotta gone, his excitement is at the thrill of watching her replacement.

As bad a Carlotta may be, it is not an easy thing to find another to fill her shoes. There is a need not only for a fine but a distinctive voice and a presence that fills the stage. Who can this wonder be, to fill Erik with such expectation?

"You are one to speak of disguises?" I chide back as steadily as my tremulous voice will allow.

Taking my hand he raises it to his fake beard and bushy eyebrows. "What do you think?"

I lean into him teasingly. "You can do better."

I press a chaste kiss to his lips. He sucks in a sharp breath of surprise. I always greet him with a kiss and every time he is taken aback. Too many harsh words and painful reactions for my humble affections to over come. His disfigurement has never been a horror to me. Though there are things he has done that fill me with dread, the fear I sometimes feel has never been a result of his face.

Erik looks at me questioningly, his finger poises above my cheek as if to follow a path to my jaw. He drops his hand to his side.

"Who is she?" I ask. There is something more to this Christine than a talent he wishes to push forward. His eyes glitter in a way that almost causes my courage to falter. "I know she must be some one you approve of or I would be meeting you in a very empty opera house this evening."

He brushes my cheek. In the dim light I see the barest flash of his teeth. "We must hurry to our seats. You are in for a delicious treat. You must hear my love. She is an angel sent from heaven and I have you to thank."

My stomach turns over and I flinch when he grasps my hand. "Me?

What I have I to do with it? Erik where did you find her? What have you done?"

His eyes narrow briefly.

"Now it is you who teases me into a temper. You know right well what you have done. I understand everything now. How can blame you for anything but good? She is beyond anyone I could imagine, and like you she loves me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

What kind of selfish creature am I that I should grow jealous at his declaration? My throat constricts too much for me to speak and I feel as though my heart has been cleft in two. I was once his angel and I ran from him. No matter my reasons, I abandoned him. Why should I begrudge him his happiness simply because I have found none?

He laces his fingers through mine and leads me forward through the maze. He is giddy like some schoolboy and even utters a small giggle with his excitement. There is a soft chair is waiting for me and he has requested a footstool. I must be quite predictable. The shadowy sweep of his arm presents me with a rose.

"How did you know I would be here? I did not write you this time." I whisper lest their be patrons on the other side of the panel. He hands me to my seat and kisses my fingertips, gallantry replacing the rough treatment I endured only moments ago.

"Don't you know you are always with me?"

I swallow the lump in my throat as he gingerly lifts my feet onto the stool.

I wait for him to open the panel so we may watch from the shadows. His gentleness reminds me of the early days when nothing could separate us. This is our family, such a strange domestic picture we make. We might be any of the fashionable people in our private box.

The space between the walls surrounding Box five is wider than what lies between other boxes. The necessity dictated by an oversized pillar. Eric made the most of this and as the lead mason on the projected, designed several panels that could both slide and pivot.

The box itself is also slightly smaller than the rest. Walls slightly out of square helped him achieve this small miracle while it looks to be larger than the rest from across the theatre. Everything in the opera is magic and illusion. It is no wonder that Erik should rule this kingdom as the master of such things. I know the trick because he could hardly stand to keep the secret all to himself. His work was too brilliant not to be shared.

Every detail was constructed so that he may have use of this box, never to be seen and to come and go as he pleases. So far as we know no one has ever seen us.

"You are jealous of my good fortune I think?" Erik teases. "Come share in my joy." He reaches for the pivot and there is a creaking of the box door. He stops and presses his ear to the panel. There is a voice of protest and a hasty exchange of words, followed by Giry's pleading.

We are invaded. I can just make out the profile of Erik's angry scowl as he roars in anger. His voice shakes the chair I sit on and must reverberate across the auditorium.

I cover my ears as his rage shivers through me. I know he will never hurt me but the terror that sound inspires is beyond logic. The men and women on the other side of the panel whimper. I hear one of them in the ground with a dull thud. Starting to my feet,

Erik spins round granting me a glimpse of his face, a fiendish flash of teeth beneath his bedraggled beard. His eyes glow green with glee as they noisily quit the box. His laugh softens as he then opens the panel wall, providing a shield from the opposing box while still allowing us a glimpse of the stage. He pulls a chair up to mine and takes my hand.

The orchestra tunes up as if no one has heard his outburst. I know that he hears every string slightly out of tune and he will make and an accounting of them to Monsieur Mercier, the conductor. If they are not in peak performance when that curtain rises. Erik will give him lengthy notes in red ink accounting what measure and which instrument failed them.

I recite these details in my mind and try to hear what he hears. All of that awareness in lost to the intimate way his fingers lace into mine. He has never done that before. The tremor of excitement running through him leaps across to me and I feel my heart begin to pounds as the lights dim and the hush falls over the audience. I am ready for anything, until the first tremulous notes of her voice fill the opera house.

My heart is pounding in my ears with a powerful sense of recognition. I leap from my chair. His hand restrains me from flinging open the panel full wide to see her face. His madness has seeped into my mind, for what I hear cannot be. He pulls be back down into the seat behind him.

I see her in glimpses. Erik seizes my chin between his finger and his thumb, forcing eye contact. They glow in a kind of fever.

"You do understand. You hear it. You cannot comprehend how often I have imagined this moment. I was so afraid you would not come."

His eyes drift shut to the gentle lilt of her voice. It is sweet and unsure but building in confidence and with every promise of brilliance. He leans forward and kisses me full on the lips, awkwardly, as if I am a proxy for her. I am too terrified by what my ears hear to respond to him.

A thunderous pounding on the door to the box interrupts and breaks the spell. I hear arguing. I recognized a voice similar in pitch to the footman, only changed. It lacks the boyishness that characterized it before and the accent is no longer rustic. I hear Giry's urgent pleading.

"Please messieurs do not make the ghost angry." Just before the door to the box opens.

Erik's growl is lower this time. His fingers dig into my flesh as he presses me back hard into the chair. He leans into me and whispers:

"Stay put my love."

I am not fooled. I hear more venom in his tone than the animal howl that filled the opera house before. He silently pulls the panel shut. After a moment of listening to them he leans into me and takes a deep breath, discovering me like some bloodhound.

"You smell of the English. Just like him."

Grazing the pulse beating violently at my neck. He utters a low growl before hissing at me: "You should not have come."

His hand fits painfully over my mouth. My first instinct is to cry out, but I cannot breath. His lips brush against the same spot on my neck. He turns his head and spits at the wall behind me.

"You taste English." He shoves me back, taking hold of me hard by the shoulder.

He kicks the chair out from under me and I land hard on my shoulder. The searing pain I feel stops abruptly as he slams my head into the marble pillar and all the world goes blank.

**Headlines**:

** MESSIERS MANAGERS MUST FIND A BETTER WAY OF KEEPING SOPRANOS...**

_ Page 1 _

_ Miss Daae did not linger to enjoy her triumphant and the opera's latest Margarita to quit the production. She disappeared after a surprising and stunning performance. Messieurs Managers refute any suggestion that the once famed Opera Ghost has returned to wreak havoc in the opera world. _

_ Perhaps they ought to make Mademoiselle- an offer. Rumor has it she has secretly returned to Paris. Is the opera ghost making a place for his favorite soprano to take the stage once again in Paris?_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_In the margins of my opus I write the truth:_

__

She should not have come,

She should not have come,

Over and over.

Until I no longer remember having written them.

They have appeared as out of a dream.  


_The music comes to life off of the page._

I closed my eyes to silence it

So I might listen instead.

I was warning her away from me,

From my other half,  


_ The rage that comes each time she is near,_

She never sees it but it is guilty of despicable things by their standards,

The edicts of the world above,

Those statutes she has adopted since she leaving me.

She does not listen as she once did,

As my thoughts drift to the wide-eyed innocence sleeping in the other room,

I realize so do I.

_It was simpler when she was like that._

__

I remember that first day I heard her cherubic voice

A glimmering angel in a camp of demons worse than me.

_ So long ago._

_She was five years old._

Blinking back at me between the bars of my cage

Her gray eyes violet flecked with the gold of the setting sun.

I don't know how long I had been caged only that she woke me

_ Body and soul._

_Before that there had been the Sultan's palace,_

Raised in what I consider an invaluable education in life and torment.

Fitted it with one way gilt mirrors 

_ Wall panels on pivots, catwalks and secret passageways all by my hand._

I, the living oddity.

__

They all celebrated my masterful work as they Sultan's divinity.

I was David to his Saul.

The Sultan even sent me a young woman

I remember her dark lovely eyes and full lips.

She could have been no more than fifteen.

_ I was but a child,  
_

_ She awakened another self deep within me._

_ When she danced was something more than a boy's passing infatuation._

She stirred my lust in a way I was incapable of understanding

Or acting upon.

_ I stayed in the shadows so she did not see my embarrassment._

_ My body sprang to life painfully._

She was not mine to touch

I understood the nightmare that was my face.

She ought not to be punished by having to look upon it.

I showed my appreciation, my affection the only way I knew how.

_ I gave my song to her._

It was not until that moment that I began to understand my gift,

_And my curse._

Encouraged by her reaction and the blush that crept across her brow

I forgot.

_ I believed her words of love and desire._

How could I not step toward her beseeching arms?

Out of the shadows and into the light.

_ Another of the Sultan's clever tricks at my expense_

_ She was not for my entertainment_

_ Nor was I her reward,_

She was the Sultan's niece

The instrument of my torment.

__

The horror of that scream when she saw my face haunts me still, 

_ It thrills and horrifies,_

_ It spurs me to do the things that need to be done._

_ Buquet surrendered such a scream_

_ Before the lasso denied him breath,_

__

A scream that rattled my bones, 

_ Breaking apart soul and matter,_

She would not stop.

She shook with terror.

Her eyes turned to water as she took me in entirely,

_ Darting from my face and over my body_

I towered over her

My hands plucking at her throat

Only to stop that piercing sound,

I would not hurt her if she would just be still.

_ Then she was, _

_ Her unseeing eyes frozen and her pupils strangely open._

It took only a moment for me to understand she would not stir again.

She was the first.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

I come to in my own bed with little knowledge of how I got there. My shoulder throbs painfully and my head is pounding. The curtains are drawn and the room is dark but for a few candles and that silver of moonlight knife's through a gap in the curtains and across my bed.

Gritting my teeth I push up into a seated position. My shoulder burns in protest. I remember that kind of pain from the last time I dislocated my shoulder. I swallow back the groan lodged in my throat. It's not just my shoulder that protests my head feels like it has shattered into a thousand pieces. The room is spinning rebelliously and my ears start to ring. At least I remember how I came to have a headache.

After tossing the chair across the narrow space with me in it. He picked me up by the arm and slammed me into the pillar in one of his fits of rage. I had only ever seen him like that once. The shoulder is nothing. It has been dislocated several times before, the hazards of my upbringing and my brief time in the Corps de ballet. But never has he thrown me like that, tossing me like a rag doll. My hands begin to shake at the memory. Waste of energy, waste of fear, getting angry at Erik only makes the pain worse.

I flop back, groaning again when my head hits the pillow. The shoulder is set but ought to be in a sling. Perhaps after his madness passed he set it for me and brought me home. I close my eyes and have a flash of being carried by someone into a cab.

"The footman." I whisper. As soon as I speak I feel the prickling at the back of my neck that I am not alone.

A man clears his throat. He is here again.

"Where is MacDougal?" He whispers harshly. "Find him and tell him our sleeping beauty is awake. " he orders in perfect English.

"I'm coming. The lass will live." Rumbles a voice from just outside my room. That man's voice purrs a perfect Scottish brogue.

I close my eyes wishing I had the sense to listen before I decided to wake up. I had been through enough for one night and did not care to unravel the mystery of my English footman. Erik was right on that score.

A cool hand is pressed against my forehead and I slap it away. He smells of cedar and leather. His was the voice I heard in the box and I was not mistaken. I open my eye and glare at him, angry with myself for having fallen for his disguise. Looking back it was all so painfully obvious. He is the reason I have a splitting headache. Is it any wonder Erik blamed me for the intrusion?

I force myself passed the pain and sit up. "Damn Englishman!" I squint up at him as his Scotsman turns up the gaslight and orders more candles in the room.

He smiles down at me, a light chuckle escapes his throat. His eyes and his bearing are now years older and world weary. Yet he has the audacity to be even more handsome. His waistcoat is a fine make and he wears a pocket watch and his cravat is tied in a simple yet elegant knot. He must have changed his clothes for his appearance at box five. He is just another amateur detective trying to make a name for himself catching the opera ghost. He even has his doctor traveling with him. How quaint to be a part of one of the many imitators of the Strand's most famed detectives?

"Who are you? You certainly are not a footman in my employ. If you were I could discharge you and been done with it."

"Ah, another hope dashed to pieces.

"You might consider being more gracious. You could still be on the floor of the opera house if not for me."

The anger sharpens the pain momentarily and then pain stifles it. "Did you follow me here from London?"

"Not precisely," His eyes crinkle a bit when he smiles. "It is more accurate to say I anticipated your arrival."

"You obviously know who I am," I reply dully. "And since my flights of fantasy are confined to the stage pray tell me which of the famed Strand stories am I participating in?" I fling my hand out to him mockingly.

He takes my fingertips and kisses them with a wink, as if to confirm my suspicions. The gray-headed Scotsman pushes his way past my Mary who is white as the bed sheet beneath her bloom of freckles.

"I have my own physician." I protest. It makes no difference. The Scotsman pushes aside gallant tormentor and my raised hand.

After examining me and checking the reflexes of my eyes, the Scottish doctor retires to the corner where he whispers to his friend. I sink back into the pillow and remember one of the last things Erik said to me, "You should not have come." He was right. He had his new muse and no longer had need of me.

No sooner does my back hit the pillow than the Englishman is towering over me again. His figure is broader than I first assessed. While I chose to exaggerate my age and figure with much padding and a gray wig, he chose to enhance the impression of youth with oversize clothes and bashful movement.

I don't think he is bored gentleman playing a game. I see a dangerous alertness in his looks. The breadth of his shoulders is fully visible beneath his impeccable tailored coat. He holds my gaze with his frank perusal of my person. For a fleeting moment I have the sense that he is as capable of reading my mind Erik.

"Can you explain to me how it is you ended up in box five when no one saw you enter, neither myself or the irrefutable Madame Giry? It seems you have a few secrets of your own to keep. It's hard to imagine why a woman of your beauty and influence would choose to sneak about in disguise."

I feel the blood drain from my face. He was paying attention.

"Don't let him rattle you my dear," the good quips doctor. "He's just afraid your smiles weren't for him this evening."

"Thank you my friend. I will call you if we need you."

He dismisses him without looking round. Is it money that he wants? Perhaps a bit of blackmail his how he acquires his fine waistcoats and gold pocket watch. The cuff links also solid gold if my upbringing still serves my eye for assessing trinkets.

"Is this a negotiation?"

His smiles. "I have no interest in your money Mademoiselle—though by your quick perusal of my valuables I might ask if you have designs on robbing me."

He leans toward me, "And yes I know who you are," he whispers. "A change of address and a padded dress are not enough to persuade me. Despite what you think I did not follow you here."

Another rakish grin, "It was simply a happenstance of circumstance that I learned you were on the boat from Dover to Calais."

I glare up at him seeing that one eye was green and the other blue-gray. How had I not noticed this before? Light from the candle on the bedside table illuminates one side of his face and leaving his one gray eye in shadow. There is something in the way he looks at me. Determination. Erik is right to wish me far from him. I do not pay attention to the world around me like I should

Turning from his gaze I reach for the steaming cup of tea that seems to have miraculous appears. He anticipates me and places it in my hands his fingers carefully grazing mine.

"Is seduction part of your normal repartee in interrogations?" I challenge.

Straightening, he laughs. "I doubt you would be surprised at its effectiveness."

Turning his head slightly to effectively whisper in my ear, "Rest assured your virtue is safe from me, for the present."

I try to glare through the smile that twitches my lips. He plays the game well. Perhaps he is what he would have me believe. "You are not dressed like a policemen and yet your manners defy the assumption you are a gentleman."

He pulls a chair close to the bed, his eyes searching my reactions for answers more than my words.

He smiles smugly, his arm resting on the bed as if the mattress was an armrest. "Cambridge."

"And beyond that? A soldier or a younger son of a minor title perhaps."

"Something like that. How is your head feeling?"

"I've felt better. Who hired you, the new management?"

He studies my face for moment. "An interested party."

I sip my tea and the room seems to tilt a little more than before.

"You look tried Mademoiselle. Perhaps we should take up these questions in the morning."

The suspicion darts in my breast as I look back down at the cup. I can hardly keep my eyes open. He takes the cup from my hands and sets it aside.

"What have you done?"

"If you have a dispute with your manner of treatment, I suggest you take it up with your physician."

I can no longer hold my eyes open. It is a fitful unnatural sleep I inherit. Unable to move my limbs, the world swirls around me somewhere between consciousness and a dream-state. Laudanum. The Scotsman must have slipped it into my tea. The pain is gone, but I hear whispers in the shadows and see demons on the ceiling. Did they know how they would punish me by this little mercy? Did they know who else would be watching?


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER 11**

_**Erik**_

_ I have been granted absolution._

_One has blessed me._

_I hear her sleeping now_

_ And imagined the steady rise and fall of her breast.  
_

_ A long night's journey behind yet dawn is not about to wake._

_"Christine," I whisper._

_So lovely,_

_So pure,_

_She did not scream when I beckoned to her,_

_She came willingly._

_She is not ashamed of me._

_Soothing the pain and the rage._

_I curl my fist around the unfinished page tattooed with my warning._

_Everything I touch is tainted with betrayal._

_An angel is with me and yet I fell the rage coming_

_Hers is the face I cannot blot from my mind._

_ Mixed up with the visions of a dead girl._

_It constricts my throat and burns in my nostrils._

_She will interfere._

_And there will be consequences._

_The ivory keys warm to my touch,_

_The instrument carried piece by piece_

_Pipe by pipe_

_ It dominates the center of my parlor in the cellars of hell. _

_ This is my domain and she is the gatekeeper._

_It might have been an Italian villa with carved furniture and richly color brocades_

_There is a small boat I keep to traverse from one side of the lake to the other._

_It is my palace, my prison, my cage,_

_In the center of this room I still maintain four walls of iron bars._

_It is to remind me of her._

_My first angel,_

_ A rosy cheeked, blue-eyed girl and with a halo of blond curls._

_The gentleness of that memory stirs the melancholy deep within me_

_That pumps through every pipe._

_I hurt her tonight,_

_When I swore I never would._

_She was the first to ever to look upon the abomination that is my face,_

_without dread, without hesitation._

_Only I noticed the yellowing bruise on her cheek_

_ And the bloom of purple at her wrist. _

_ We understood one another.  
_

_I promised to be her friend.  
_

_ To never to be the cause of her pain._

_ The fever took over,_

_ The taste her skin, bitter and still just as sweet._

_I held her with a rush of satisfaction such as I have never known._

_I had never seen fear in her eyes until tonight._

_ That was how I made her mine._

_ Alas she belonged to me completely _

_ As Christine filled my opera house in sweet triumph_

_ I knew I would never be alone again._

_The fever of the music takes over._

_I remember not a thing until I find myself standing in the night air below her window,_

_Leaving my beautiful Christine to watch over the only creature I worship._

_I must know that she is well and if I can but look upon her sleeping,_

_It would be enough._

_It is a simple thing to climb to her balcony _

_ To peer through her window at peace my hands_,

_I abandon my angel to watch over my goddess._

_The Englishman and his Scottish hound wait in rooms below._

_I hate the stench of them._

_They who try to cage her again. _

_ They who go about in daylight while I move in to shadow,_

_And by such divine separation of light and dark,_

_Suffer the madness of always parting from her._

_The light of a single candle _

_ And the splendor of the winter moon across her pale brow_

_ Just looking at her chases away the chill._

_ I need her more than ever._

_To look, nay I came to touch._

_Soft, warm everything that is home to me is in her._

_The cup on her bedside table smells of laudanum,_

_Just like the one at Christine's bedside table._

_I could not risk her waking while I was gone._

_Standing near her my heart pounds._

_The blood heats up._

_Her face so peaceful,_

_I see a reflection of the innocence that once was._

_The innocence I crave in Christine._

_I brush away a hair from her face,_

_She was my first kiss._

_The memory fills me with warmth and calm._

_She was eight years-old _

_ And far more experienced in such things than my eighteen years._

_No one had ever touched me before._

_Not even a mother's kiss. _

_ Does she still taste of roses and lemons?_

_ I breathe her in to quell my fears._

_Arching over her I cannot help but brush my lips to hers._

_She groans and exhales a piece of her soul,_

_Into my parted lips, _

_ The taste of laudanum is on her breath._

_Bitter and tainted_

_Yet capable of stirring in me the sins of the flesh._

_The warmth of her passes through me._

_ My heart rails against me for my unfaithfulness._

_"Christine, Christine."_

_If I am to have grace,_

_It must be through one's innocence_

_Not my lust._

_Swearing, I rush toward the window,_

_I no longer care who hears_

_I crush the rose I brought with me against the rails of her balcony,_

_A shower of crimson petals_

_Staining the snow like droplets of blood._

_It is an easy climb down to the street._  
_  
In the quiet of the night I hear the Englishman's heavy steps at her door._

_Thinking he had the right-_

_ Thinking he might touch her flesh_

_ Though it be a thing holy, and dedicated to another._

_The light of the hallway rushes in._

_He runs to the balcony and discovers the rose._

_He is quick._

_I am better._

_ How can I do anything less than reward him with the ring of my laughter?_

_Making certain to whisper in his ear from the street below,  
_

_"Her flesh is not yours to plunder, _

_ One warning, _

_ One penance for failure."_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Eyes open."

My mind commands but it is several more minutes before they comply. The shoulder still throbs but my head is better. Last night's laudanum has worn off and its bitterness lingers on my tongue now that it is no longer disguised by the honey in last night's rose hip tea.

I press my fingertips to my lips. I feel as though a promise of a kiss still lingers there. I have had such strange dreams and it leaves the echo of another flavor on my lips. Cinnamon. The rumble of the carriage wheels and the smell of fresh bread baking on the corner provide me with such comforting recollections. Paris is awakening from her slumber. Home. I have been polluted by my time among the English and only she can heal me.

The door to my bedroom swings open wildly. I am to be invaded once again? But it is only a maid bringing in my breakfast. With a groan I roll over on my good shoulder and push myself up. That's when I see it resting on the bedside table. I did not dream. I press my finger to my lip again. Cinnamon. He chews on sticks of it when he writes. Erik was here.

I don't have time to raise the cover off of my breakfast before the firm footsteps of the Englishman carries him across the carpets of my boudoir. By the furrowed brow and the stretch in each step I have a feeling that he also knows Erik has been here, or at least that I have not been alone.

"You had a visitor last night," he accuses with his usual English detachment but I see the glint of anger behind his eyes. As if I had betrayed him.  
Feeling rebellious, I feign innocence and I pluck the remnants of the rose and hold them to my nose. "The bruised petals are still as sweet."

"That is not the only offering."

I raise my brows quizzically. "I am to say thank you?"

"We both know that did not come from me. There are six dozen white roses which arrived only this morning."

"Indeed. I don't suppose I have you to thank for them?"

The corner of his mouth twists a bit and he takes a breath. "No. Of course the first three dozen must be your standard delivery."

He has done his research. I shrug. My fun is over before it's begun.

"It must be a mistake of the florist."

"And this?" He tosses three more red roses onto my lap. "They were nestled in amongst the flowers on the subsequent delivery. I can only assume they come from the same night visitor who left you that on the balcony."

I hazard a glance at my balcony where there is a smattering of red petals strewn about. "Some admirer must have gone to great lengths to circumvent your guard detail."  
I answer dryly but my mind was caught in a memory.

When Erik and I lived amongst the gypsies the husband of our healing woman was a falling down drunk who used to beat her senseless. Every once in a while she would grow wise and lock him outside of their wagon. He would bring her a single red rose and she would let him inside every time. So I came to think that a red rose was a supplication for forgiveness.

I smile and inhale deeper. And just like that woman, I forgave him.

"I should think the fact that he has been holding a young woman against her will for the past two days ought and broke into your rooms ought to take the blush out of the rose."

I exhale with a snort. "You don't understand anything Englishman."

He is right of course. I reach back and gingerly probe the lump on my head. What happened was no accident. Erik did exactly as he intended, but so have I. I have done far worse damage than a lump on the head.

"Ah, I see," he says at the frank confession in my gesture.

"Did he say anything useful?"

"And how am I to determine that when you put laudanum in my evening cup of tea? As far as I know I had some interesting dreams and was under the contemplation of a stray cat on my balcony."

His eyes narrowed. "How extraordinary. Cats in England aren't prone to delivering flowers."

"I should like to get dressed. We can finish this discussion after breakfast unless you are determined to keep me in bed for another day."  
His eyes turn from mine for a fraction, taking in my nightdress and bed.

I read his expression in an instant and have only to be frustrated with the twisting response in the pit of my stomach. Professional and national pride, prevent me from blushing from the top of my head down to my toes. English woman's modesty would illicit loud protest and flapping about.

I simply swallow and lift my chin. The subtle gesture has the desired effect of raising his eyes to mine. "One man is dead and a woman is missing. The laudanum was not my decision."

"Who has died?"

"A rat catcher by the name of Jean. He fell stone dead. Near as the physicians can figure he died of fright."

"And your opinion?"

"He had a flask with him. MacDougal thinks he was over dosed on laudanum. The man was older and probably had a weak heart to begin with but murder is murder Mademoiselle."

I know Jean. He was never a cause of any of my troubles. His brother, who is even older, still works at the opera house. If Erik drugged him it was to make sure that he did not interfere with his plans that night. His death was an accident, though I am not convinced that his heart didn't just give out after all.

His eyes soften. "I can see he was a friend of yours. Forgive me for being blunt and I am sorry for your loss."

"I have yet to know your name footman."

"Henry Thornton."

"Henri." I deliberately emphasize a French pronunciation though I am perfectly capable of imitating his Anglo accent.

"Henry." He corrects taking a step closer.

"Whatever pleases you Monsieur Thornton," I drop my voice just enough that he has to lean forward. My femininity may be the best weapon in my arsenal. I ignore the smell of cedar and freshly laundered linen that clings to him. His hesitation appeases my vanity with the thought that he is not entirely immune to my charms.

Mary opens the door with a smile and a slight clearing of his throat he steps back.

I grab my dressing gown and put it on as I rise, making certain he has a clear flash of a well-shaped calf before I draw the sash closed and brush past him.  
His eyes flash green and his lip smothers a smile with an unconvincing scowl.

"Mister Thornton, I will be asking you to leave now."

She speaks up in a tone that warns her orders will not be ignored.

He bows to her orders with a respectful inclination of his head and a wink that only I can see. I would not trade a dozen French maids for this one English one. I admire her ability to inspire obedience where I instill none.

"He has the mark of good breeding in his face," she observes as the door clicks shut. "But not in his manners."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_Morning._

_I have not slept, _

_I never sleep._

_The sun has risen and she moves about with the timidity of inexperience_

_And eyes that follow me about in expectation._

_As if I am her world, her ideal..._

This mask, 

_Cold, lifeless, unyielding, _

_Knows only one expression and it has made me a god in her eyes.  
My chest swells only to tighten as I think on her, My Sweet.  
But she is not here.  
_

_Christine is here._

_More innocent and trusting than My Sweet ever could be.  
She moves toward me, calling me Angel._

_Her white hand cups under my chin as I sit at the organ and she stands over me,  
_

_My heart leaps to life, resurrected from its deathlike state._

_My flesh tingles under the pressure of her fingertips._

_I hold my breath and_

_...She kisses me._

Soft, powdery, like a confectioner's sugar over pastries.  
I choke on the unexpected tears that clog my throat, 

_She catches each one with her blessed hands as they sift through the mask._

I lean toward her warmth and let my eyes drift shut,

_A silent prayer that this moment never ends_

_...Then I feel the cool rush of air across my naked face._

The mask is gone all that is left of this moment is the sound of her cry.  
Her scream piercing that shattered my heart and damned even my dreams.  
She is on her knees covering her eyes and imploring me,  
As if I would hurt her.

Her hands quake and the fear

_The dread her eyes _

_Yet her horror could not equal mine._

This face.  
I see red.  
"Why?"  
(I rage...  
should I expect the luxury of a second chance?

"Why?"  
…Did I ever believe this flimsy shield could conceal my hideousness.

"Why?"  
...I rip down the velvet curtains and turn over the candelabra  


_I knew better than to let her approach me,_

_But the temptation was too great._

_As I turn over every table, tumbling candles and books,_

_She comes to me weeping with hands turned up in supplication to me_

_When I should beg her forgiveness for my accursed face._

_I seizes upon her palms_

_We collapse together on the floor and she scrambles away from me.  
A frighten child, _

_I shove the demonic head that is my face under her nose._

Choking she whispers, "Please let me go."  
"I told you not to touch it!  
... Why wouldn't you listen?"

"I am sorry."

I turn away from her but she takes my hand,  
Her fingers cold and trembling.  
She is frighten of what I may do  
The beast inside agrees,  
But the angel she once saw in me begins to sing.

Her hand warms in mine,  
Begging, pleading with angel to over come the monster.  
She turns back toward me,  
No longer averting her eyes.  
I am transfixed,

Her sweet lips plead and touch mine again.  
Softer, deeper,  
Full of love,  
She tastes like honey and my tears.  
When we part shaking she hands me my mask.

_But I cannot forget the terror in her eyes,  
I have seen that look before,  
It was the same look on the face of my sweet when the animals attacked her in my cellar,  
I know I do not have a so pretty of a face,  
But am I such a beast?  
_

_"You need to rest. You have a performance tonight."  
"Please do not lock me in that room."  
"Do not try my patience."  
_


	14. Chapter 14

_White muslin,_

_Gray broadcloth_

_Blue taffeta_

**Chapter 14**

Choosing attire for the impending character assassination is a more daunting process than I anticipated. With Mary's fine eye and expertise it is finally settled that I shall wear a gown of deep eggplant. It is high about the neck while exposing just enough of my throat to excite an interested man's imagination.

I glance at the paper. The story focuses on the more sensational aspects of Christine's disappearance. It blames her presumed lover, the younger son of a count. This account makes no mention of the scuffle in box five or the angry voice of the opera ghost booming out over the audience. The new managers must have more pull that I believed to keep that detail out of the papers. That shows as much as they knew about opera. Nothing sells tickets like a juicy ghost story.

I did not see the crumpled page until I checked myself one last time in the glass. There by the bed in a tight ball is the yellowing page of sheet music. Mary is in the dressing room putting away the rejected gowns. I know it is from him even before I pick it up. I pull it apart carefully if perchance Monsieur Thornton had the ears of cat and wait outside my door.

It was a page from his opus, his cramped notes crawling like ants breaking cords and twisting harmonies into something wonderful and horrifying. Scrawled across the margins in red ink, in a hand that is both rapier and childlike, is his message to me.

"She should not have come, she should not have come," over and over again. I crumple the page and toss it into the fire, not carrying who hears me.

I have other battles to fight this day. I cannot let Erik's games throw me off of mine. Turning on my heel, I give myself one last glance in the mirror to smooth away the tremor that Erik's not has started. At least what I am wearing will work in my favor. The color is both vibrant and subdued. The depth of the color is almost black in this light. It shall lend me a dignity and poise I do not feel. Everything else is simple. No jewelry and my hair swept away from my face, simple but not severe. Mary is worth her weight in gold.  
Once upon a time my hair was a glory of blond curls with a smattering of freckles across my nose. The pale, dark haired woman reflected back at me has no association with that child. That girl and I, we are strangers.

I descend the stairs and turn toward the library at the indication of Rene, my butler's head. The door to the library swings open before my finger touches the handle. My eyes fall upon the Scotsman first. Despite his salt and pepper hair there is vigor about him. He is one of those men whose vitality for living greatly outmatches that of men several years his junior. I turn to him first. His disarming manners may be a mask to hide the fact that he is the most formidable of the pair.

"Doctor, I don't think I have had the pleasure of knowing your name." He smiles broadly. Thornton is just behind the door. Seeing him out of the corner of my eye I acknowledge him only with a nod.

"Collin MacDougal, a pleasure and an honor Mademoiselle-," he offers me a gallant bow.

"Doctor MacDougal," I repeat, perfectly creating the burr of his brogue. With one eye still on Thornton seems displeased. I wonder what sort of reaction he expected. I know that I am a vain and frivolous creature without his frowns reminding me. Playing a part is my stock and trade. The comfort and splendor of my home proclaims my talent for it.

MacDougal hands me to a chair. The lines of Thornton's face fall into a disinterested look. If I was not so convinced of Scottish gallantry, I might take comfort in the thought that the pains to my grooming had some effect on at least one of my captors.

"Do you hold me under house arrest or am I free to come and go?"

Thornton's lips tighten. I detect a slight crinkle at his eye that denote a touch of amusement. "You have taken a great deal of pains with your dress for a march to the gallows. One might suspect you intend to proffer some sort of bribe to charm your jailer. Not that I object." Only now do his eye appraise me up and down, deliberate to make certain I have marked the path of his eyes. "The affect is quite alluring as you no doubt are well aware. Ah, to be the man in the position to render relief to your present distress."  
My hackles rise at his mocking tone even as I feel my face flush with the realization that the gown is a little too well fitting. Perhaps black broadcloth would have been better choice.

"I don't suspect your are effective in any position," I reply archly. It is hard to suppress the urge to cross my arms. Such a gesture would be admitting defeat when the test had only just begun.

"I am only here to ask you a few questions." Thornton cannot keep the smile from his lips. I want to slap it off of him. If I had not spent the last several years ruled by English manners probably I would._ "_I am not here on behalf of the Managers. I hired on by a certain patron of the Opera who was concerned about a pattern he observed repeating itself."  
A bead of sweat starts at the back of my neck and works its way down the color of my dress. I bite the inside of my cheek to regain control. His eyes narrow as if he knows about the five.

"One I am told that ought to be very familiar to you. The criminally insane often choose to recreate a past success. They have a need to relive their crimes in one way or another."

My stomach drops. His words reach out to my worst fears and the sickening apprehension I felt when I first learned of her disappearance returns. Erik is not the madman he portrays. For every act there is a reason and a code of justice rules what he does.

"What is that to me? And who is your patron to me that I should answer the questions of his lap dog?"  
Monsieur MacDougal shifts out of the corner of my vision. Thornton tosses a newspaper in my lap. It's yellow and faded, bearing a headline almost identical to the one that arrived this morning.

YOUNG SOPRANO DISAPPEARS AFTER A TRIUMPHANT PERFORMANCE …

I do not need to read the rest. I know what it says. My stomach tightens with the knowledge of everything that article did not say.

Thornton picks it up and begins to read aloud:

"Young ingenue Mademoiselle - replaces diva in the inaugural performance to the long anticipated opening of Palais Garnier, marking a new era in Academie National de Musique. The evening's triumph was marked by the disappearance of the young mademoiselle following the performance. All of Paris is aghast…"  
I grab his wrist to stop him.

"Shall I go on?" He asks.

"I know what it says," I reply with less command than I wished. The room has turned cold. It has been fifteen years since that night. I remember it as though it was yesterday. It is more real and more vivid than anything presently happening in this room. It is very far from what he thinks.

"You have made no secret that you find my presence officious, but I think you know I am here out of concern for you safety." His voice is still firm but gentler.

I look at him only half seeing, half hearing. My thoughts are with her now, wondering indeed history has repeated. Is Erik the savor not the mastermind of yet another disappearance? I hear the syllables yet English is suddenly as foreign to me as the day I first set foot on Thornton's island. My mind latches on to the word safety. "I understand that you are under someone's employ to make my life a misery. I assure you I am in no danger."

His brows knit together and his eyes darken when I say nothing more. The line of his mouth goes down sharply. Yet it is the subtle clearing of MacDougal's throat that alerts me to the depth of his frustration.

"And what of your late night intruder?"

"Why should a stray cat trouble you?" I fire back.

"Is it customary for a cat to leave a rose as a calling card?"

"I would not know. I have been away from Paris long enough to forget the common customs of a Parisian house cat."

A crease forms in his forehead. "And what explanation do you have for my finding you unconscious in your box at the opera."

I lift my chin, "It was a very dull performance." He leans over me shaking his head. We lock gazes for several seconds. The room feels very warm and very close.  
His hands are tucked behind his back. He straightens and drops something in my lap. I refuse to break off eye contact to look at it. He steps back and turns away.  
My moment of triumph has passed. There is another crumbled page from Erik's opus. I do not need to look inside to know what it says.

"I suppose you know what this is about."

I can only nodded. The lump at my throat prevents me from doing more. Thornton tucks his finger under my chin and gently lifts it.

His voice drops down. "And these bruises on your cheek," The softer he speaks the harder his words hit, "I suppose that these are from the cat as well."

I blink back the tears I can no longer hide. Releasing me, he steps back, glancing over at his partner. His stiff posture and the doctor's sympathetic expression, have them looking like a certain pair from the illustrations of The Strand Magazine. "You cannot deny that there is a reasonable assumption that you safety may be at risk."

"You cannot remain here," I state as evenly as I can. I must move. I get up from the chair and step past him. Crumpling Erik's warning note, I toss it in the fire.  
Thornton's face darkens in impatience. I suppose he considers it a matter of destroying his evidence. To me it is simply the correspondence of love affair having gone on long past the time it should have ended. Never in my life have I believed Erik capable of harming me. Yet under the scrutiny of Thornton I was forced to face the possibility. The note said everything.

I watch it burn, the ashes waver in the heat until they crumble. How Erik and I could have strayed so far from our dreams? I lean my head into the mantle and take comfort in the radiating heat. Waiting for the next question, accusation.

"If your not careful you're likely to scorch your dress." Warm fingers take hold of my wrist and gently pull me back a step.

"Why should I care?"

His finger traces my cheek. With an involuntary shudder I look up at him, recalled from the darker recesses of my mind to the present.

"I've grown rather fond of it and the way it sets off your blushes."

His eyes are teasing now. An hour earlier I would have rejoiced that it was a sign of my having gained power over him. I am no longer the vain and haughty creature that stepped through the doors. His questions have humbled me. With a quick glance about the room, I realize the good doctor is gone.

Understanding my looks Thornton anticipates my question.

"He has not gone far. But he has other appointments to attend to."

Realizing I must look like a pouting child, I softly clear my throat and straighten an imaginary crease in my skirt. I move away from the fire, expecting Thornton to step aside. Instead, he moves closer and his hand encircles my other wrist. He wears a bemused smile as his thumb begins to trace small circles on the insides both of them.

His unexpected touch sends a jolt through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He cannot have missed the leap in my pulse. I endeavor to master my reaction. I doubt he is fooled. He leans in to me so that our noses fairly touch.

"Tell me what I want to know," he whispers. His breath caresses my lip.

"What you want to know or what you want to hear, which I think has more to do with my confirming your theories than answering any questions." My voice drops a pitch to match his but is more tremulous than I mean it to be. My rebellious body drifts infinitesimally closer inhaling the circle of his warmth.

"Do you think I did not know what you are doing? This dress, your perfume, I assure you it will not distract me from my purpose."

I can no longer meet his eyes with any certainty. I am not the only one doing it! My mind screams. He takes me in from the top of my head down to feet with a look that knocks the air from my lungs. With I did not think I possessed, I step past him. He lets me but not without letting his fingers grazing the inside of my palm.

"How fortunate for you that my plan only worked on me." I think, only it is out loud.

My hand falls to my side and my jaw drops open to hear my own thoughts betrayed.

I was in the middle before I was aware of what was happening. One step and he has me by the elbow. He spins me round and into his arms. His mouth poised a hair's breath from mine, that same wry expression on his lips as he takes in my expelled breath. The haste of his actions did not prepare me for the gentle hesitancy as his upper lip grazed mine. The warmth spread through me like a soundless roar beating inside my ears.

I follow his leaning in expectation.

"Damn."

The circle of his arms is gone as he moves three steps from me in an instant. His brows sharpen downward. He looks everywhere but at my stunned, nay, disappointed face. That was when I heard the library doors swing open.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

A sound like a squawking seabird reverberates off the marble tiles in a way that is likely to make my eardrums bleed, or very nearly. My groan echoes Thornton's though for very different reasons. Rene enters red faced, holding a silver salver with a single card on it. I grimace for him as much as myself. I know that look of pure exasperation, just as I know the name on the card before I see.

"La Carlotta Mademoiselle," he says gruffly. I can feel Thornton's raised brow. Rene is more than a friend and in unguarded moments or when it comes to the matter of my long time rival, Carlotta, he has earned the rights of his opinions. Rene raises his brows as his eyes surmise the obvious tension between Thornton and myself.

I wink to his unasked question. Truth will come later. Rene has been with me from the beginning, watched me grow, trained in the arts that Erik could not and he watches over me. He is not a servant but a nearer to a partner and a dear friend.

Rene turns and lets me step passed him. I take a few deep breaths to clear my mind of what happened in the library and to steel my spine to deal with her. She will only be received in one of my parlors. It is the only room free of books and their dust.

"I think it sufficient to say that all of Paris is now aware of my arrival now, if they have not read the paper first surely Madame Carlotta has shouted in the streets." I say off-handedly as I excuse myself to receive her.

Thornton's expression is once more smooth and unreadable. His composure is so decidedly stoic I question whether on not I mistook what happened. Perhaps his toe caught on a rug and fell toward my lips. Things were much easier when I believed he was a footman.

I cringe at the scathing epithets La Carlotta unleashes on the maid who is trying to serve her tea. Outrage dashes away any remnant of that pleasant warmth he had inspired and I am glad for it. I do not know what Erik is about or what his game may be, but he has rarely left Carlotta out of his torments. She has long suspected my connection to the opera ghost. The parlor doors are wide open I charge forward without hesitation. When dealing with a yapping dog it is important to stand one's ground.

"Aha. There you are," she shrills triumphantly. "They tried to tell me you were not at home but I did not believe them."  
I look side long at Annabelle, my housekeeper. She is settling a tray of laden with shortbread and cafe already fixed with milk and sugar. I smother a smirk at her small revenge.

Carlotta sniffs at it. "Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to poison me?"

"Leave us and you may take the tray. I do not think La Carlotta will be staying long." I admonish with a wink at Annabelle. She curtsies to me and spins on her heal, adding the insult of turning her back on Carlotta.

Carlotta puffs out like a chicken and points at her retreating back. "You allow your servants to treat me with such an affront and then you offer me milk in my cafe.  
You know what it does to my voice."

"I doubt those who pay to see you can tell the difference. Besides, I did not imagine you would sing at all with such _malchance_ as follows you."  
Her eyes widen to the size of saucers. She raises accusing finger at me and her enormous mouth stutters, popping open and shut. Her hair is colored with henna this year and the rouge on her lips and cheeks matches the shade perfectly. Her complexion follows and I start to worry in earnest as she goes from red to a deep shade of purple.

"Carlotta?" I reach forward and grab her wrist and gesture for her to breathe. We have known each other since my days in the corps de ballet. She was a member of the chorus and carrying on an affair one of the managers of the time. Of course back then we were at the Academie Nationale and Palais Garnier was not yet complete.

"You, You..." She sputters enraged. For all her attempts at a kind of Italian accent  
I know for a fact that she comes from a very poor neighborhood in Barcelona. "These are all yours!" Every trace of her adoptive speech pattern is gone. She begins spouting in Spanish.

Of the several languages I speak, Spanish is not one I am fluent in. I know just enough to get by as a tourist in her native land, so I may eat, buy and sleep. I sing it better than I can speak it. But having it flung at me by a hysterical diva I am at a complete loss. Out of it all I pick up on several colorful oaths and one idea. She believes I am out to destroy her.

"She says you mean to kill her this time." Thornton translates from the doorway.

I am too astonished to be insulted by his entering in on a private interview. That argument will have to wait for the present. Not that her insults ever held much power over me. I had been hearing them since I was fifteen. She is hysterical, however, and my focus is on getting her calm enough to throw out of my house. I gesture to the sideboard and he pours her a brandy. I practically force it down her and I watch in amazement as she achieves the most amazing feat. She swallows the entire contents of the glass without ceasing to speak. This is soon followed by a croaking bout of hiccups. I do not think this is her first brandy today.

"Did I hear someone laugh?" She accuses, her eyes bearing down first on me and then on Thornton. Her declaration sends a shiver down my spine. The parlor door is wide open and there is no one in lurking in the hallway. Her red-rimmed eyes narrow as the brandy begins to exert its power.

"Do you deny you have done this?" She resumes in French.

"I can hardly deny what I do not know."

"You forget I was there. I remember what happened that day. Who are you Monsieur?"

"Henry Thornton of London, Madame."

She clears her throat and smooths her skirt. Sighing, I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Tsk tsk," she wags takes out her fan and taps my forearm, hard enough that I think I may bruise. "You did not warn me we have an Englishman about." She is now speaking in English for his benefit. Forgetting very quickly that he had no trouble following her in Spanish or French. "Perhaps he does not know the story."

She has never forgiven me for taking her place that first night at the Opera House. It was my role I earned it, and I paid dearly for it. Despite the revelation and triumph I experienced on stage. I hardly remember the performance myself. Though I can never forget what happened after.

"Carlotta, our history is hardly a secret. You made certain your accusations covered the front page of every newspaper in Paris." I persevere in French.

"True and yet you insist on denying you have done these things." The last syllable produces a spray of saliva that splatters near my eye.  
I wince and pull the handkerchief from my sleeve in disgust. She smiles at Thornton again, as if he is her ally and I wonder for a moment if it could possibly be true. She lived well and earned a good deal. Francs ran through her fingers like water. Anytime she has accused me of anything it has had the dual purpose to extort purse money. I cannot believe she would have funds sufficient to attract an investigator of the Scotland Yard or wherever it was he has learned his trade.

"Go ahead and deny it. But I have the proof." She is digging in her reticule, puffing in triumph when she finds her prize. "I shall have my justice and you will not get the better of me again!"

"Carlotta, I have only been in Paris these last three days and spent two of them in my bed. I can hardly have hatched a plot against you. And why should I?" My patience is wearing thin, "You have Paris. I have the world."

She gapes at me in mock offense. Then she snaps her teeth together like some over fed terrier. "I hardly think you have conquered the world when you no longer perform except perhaps in private homes." Her throat curls around the word private and she casts a meaningful look at Thornton. At least that answers one of my questions. He is not in her employ. She thinks I am his creature of the moment.

I shrug off the implication. She marries her prey but the game is no different in my eyes. The truth is I have only ever warmed the bed of one man. I have made a great deal of money singing for the world and I am paid very well by grateful wives to stay out of men's beds. More over I know how to live within my means and what an investment is. London markets have done very well for me. She can believe what she wants about how I ply my talents. I care not what anyone thinks, anyone except Erik.

"I know you do not do these things for yourself. You know better than to humiliate yourself by stepping onto a stage again."  
It's my turn to gape. It is true I rarely perform. I have no need to do so other than to amuse myself or return a favor to a friend. It is not because there is anything wanting in my performance.

"Then in your wild imaginings I sabotage you for another. Pray tell me who is this person?"  
She looks up from her search to pierce me with a fierce look. "Who indeed. Who is this Christine Daae to you? Can you deny it when she is to return to your home? Who is she really that you would shelter her in this house?"

I blink at her dumbfounded. "Christine Daae is no more than a name on a program to me. Clearly someone has played a joke at yours and my expense."

Raising her finger in a gesture to silence me she at last withdraws her prize. It is a bundle of letters tied together with a bit of lace. My hear leaps to my throat in recognition of the yellowing paper and tell tale red ink and the directions on the outside of each note. Is there anyone Erik didn't write?

"Aha! Your face, that is as good as an admission of your guilty conscience. You see it do you now Monsieur?"

His is a still as marble. I had almost forgotten he was standing there. What reason did he have to speak when she was telling everything? She digs through the stack and finds what she is looking for on the top. She unfolds the note and hands it to me.

The velum is yellow and fragile but the ink is fresh. Then she digs through her stack for another and hands it to me. The way she nods her head up and down, the waddle of her neck bouncing with each moment. I don't remember that the last time we saw one another.

"You see, you see! I tell them but they not listen to me." She sorts through and keeps piling note after note into my trembling hands. "The handwriting is the same no! Same paper! The same ink! No, read this one," she points to the yellow page. "This is the first. It came to me the day we opened Faust. See? The ghost, he tells me not to sing. And when I did not listen, you poisoned my drink so I cannot sing for a week."

I can only stare in shock. "Read it! Read it!"

I feel the warmth of some one behind me. The glass doors in the display behind her shows Thornton now stands behind my chair. His eyes are on my reflection, not her and not the notes. He doesn't have to read them he knows what they contain. He watches as I reluctantly obey her command:

_"Messieurs,_  
_ Your touching concern is noted. I will return Christine Daae to you under the watchful eyes of Mademoiselle- in one day's time. She will sing for you and at the conclusion of tonight's performance she shall be yours. I will provide her with your next set of instructions._

_ Your Obedient Friend,_  
_ O.G._

Like one seeing Medusa's head I am a stone.

"See here Monsieur!" Carlotta beckons as if across a vast ocean. "She as good as admits her guilt, no? She cannot deny my proof that she has threatened me to promote her little protégé."

Thornton comes round to stand between us. "Madame Carlotta, if I may?" He bends and plucks the letters from my limp fingers. A thousand thoughts, a myriad of emotions flood through me and I cannot collect a single one to make an utterance. Thornton's presence sharpens my spine and alleviates the necessity for me to speak. Carlotta has an infallible nose for money and for power. She wastes no more time on me and now turns all her attention on him.

"Fool," I hiss under my breath as the realization hits me.

Thornton glances over but Carlotta prattles on as though not hearing a thing. I jump to my feet a bit to quickly and have to steady myself on the arm of the chair. Thornton extends a hand. I shrug it off and head for the decanter. I must act or Erik will find himself inside a French prison. I pour myself a glass of brandy and take it down with a flick of my wrist. Of course he already knew about the note. He has known since this morning. Where else in Paris would a Scottish doctor have a pressing engagement except in the stead of his good friend?

"Carlotta, indeed I see that you are in danger. Despite our grudge you have nothing to fear from me. But please have a care with your life. You ought not to have ventured forth with this madman running the streets. I am afraid to let you from my house, unless Monsieur Thornton would be so gracious as to take you under his protection."

It takes very little to convince Carlotta that she is in too much danger to travel alone. Having obliged Monsieur Thornton to escort her I buy myself the freedom of an afternoon. To make certain he does not return too quickly, a few suggestions of shops it is unfortunate she cannot attend will ensure she must see them. There is no escaping La Carlotta once she has set her sights on you. Its like being locked in the jaws of a cayman.


	16. Chapter 16

(Sorry about the formatting. I have struggled and tried everything I know to get this to look right. Let's just say that Fanfiction formatting is not free form narrative poetry friendly. Best I could do is bold the first letter of every stanza. If you have read this far I am eager to know what you think. I am converting all of this from long poem, turning parts of it into prose but I wanted to keep Erik's voice more poetical. This has messed with the pacing a bit so let me know if it is too slow. There is a lot of back story I am weaving into the retelling. I hope it is not too confusing. I know for Erik-Christine-Raoul purist this may stray further than you may like. Thanks for reading!)

_I leave Christine to her hysterics,_

_At lap of the stagnant waters against my boat,_

_My heart grows heavy with thoughts of her..._

_...Stirred like murky waters of this lake._

**Chapter 16**

_**-M**y Sweet was only six when she kissed me the first time, _

_So innocently upon my cheek_,

_Yet all that was human and kind in my sixteen years._

_Our first, my first bestowed so generously the day we met.  
_

_I might have slipped my bonds at anytime and been free._

_**-I** stayed with my captors for her, my own sweet friend._

_She was eight when first she kissed my lips,_

_No mask between us,_

_No horror,_

_"That is how to say goodnight to a brother."_

_**-I **did not know how to argue._

_How should I have known?_

_I had brothers but I knew nothing of what it was to be one._

_She was right and she was wrong._

_...She was twelve when Rene told her she had to stop._

_**-H**e has been with us from the beginning and kinder than the rest._

_Rene made sure I had food and a blanket every night,  
_

_I suspect he only did it to make sure she did not give hers to me._

_She looked so different that night,_

_Dress-up in bright circle skirts and white peasant blouse._

_**-T**hey painted her face with powder and rouge to play the part of harlot,_

_And had sent her out amongst the crowd to pick pockets and entertain teenage boys._

_I did not see the change that was to come._

_Then it was all I could see when I looked at her._

_**-I** lived long enough in the Sultan's palace to understand what she could not,_

_The boys pursued her_

_Whistling and squeezing her shoulders when they had the chance._

_I watched with too much interest and was beaten for it._

_I also saw Rene protect her._

_**-S**he was shaken and confused when she came to me that night,_

_...her hair fallen about her shoulders,_

_...skirt longer than a girl's but not long enough for a woman's  
_

_...that unnatural stain of rouge upon her lips._

_**-S**he was breathless._

_I shrank from her, knowing I would never again look upon the little girl I saw that morning._

_"They wanted me to kiss them," she grimaced, "but Rene chased them away."_

_I listened too angry to speak._

_"Oh, your fingers. They beat you again."_

_**-S**he placed her hand on my cheek, not feeling as my flesh twitched away._

_Her kind eyes mistakes my shrinking for something it is not._

_She kisses the fingers my tormentor had broken, bathing my hands in her tears,_

_Like sweet healing waters of Gilead-_

_Pressing her cheek to mine._

_**-I** cried because she did _

_Because I saw that someday someone would have to protect her from me._

_I sang to her until her breath evened._

_Then, I asked the question whose answer I did not want to know._

_"Did they hurt you?"_

_**-I** was afraid she kept something from me,_

_My rage barely contained as I spoke._

_"No," she sniffed._

_I still see those clear blue eyes looking at me._

_"But he says I can't see you anymore._

_I have a new job now and they don't want people thinking you have touched me."_

_**-"P**romise me you will run away from here."_

_"Where?"_

_"Anywhere and it must be tonight._

_You must leave and never turn back, not for me or anyone."_

_She protested, "I promised I would never leave you."_

_All my life all I had ever wanted was this sweet affection._

_**-"I**t's okay to break your promise, because I am asking you to._

_When my fingers heal and I can get away from this cage I will come find you."_

_I lied knowing they would blame me when she ran._

_I only thought if I could distract them long enough,_

_Bate their anger for as long as this body would hold out,_

_I might buy her the time she needs to get away safe._

_**-B**y this I ought to have been able to save her..._

_...And so I would have done if not for Rene._

_**-R**ene interrupted us that night. _

_"He is lying. If you run tonight they will kill him and he knows it."_

_**-"D**on't interfere," I hissed at him. "You have done enough."_

_He ignored me and turned to her._

_"I do not approve of my brother's plans for you little one._

_I have protected both of you as long as I can._

_The best thing I can do for you now is let you go."  
_

_**-H**is hard gaze fell to me._

_"It will be your job to protect her when you leave and you must promise me one thing."_

_He dropped his eyes to her,_

_"You must no longer kiss him on the mouth. You are too grown up for that now."_

_She opened her jaw to protest._

_**-"I** must have the promise or I will not help you._

_I know you do not understand me yet, but he does and that is reason enough."_

_I agreed, grieved for my weak flesh._

_She is too hurt, too innocent._

_**-"Y**ou may pass for a laborer if you wish,_

_But you are clever enough to steal whatever you need,_

_Just be sure to cover that gaping hole you have for a nose and no one will mind much how ugly you are."_

_**-W**hat followed were glorious days of sun and freedom,_

_...Happiness._

_...Then she left,_

...…_Not even the moon would cast its silver my direction _

_ ...To relieve the unrelenting blackness of this existence._

_**-M**y love,_

_ ...My sweet,_

_ ...You leave this disciple little choice but to take _

_ ...That for which I so longingly supplicate._


End file.
